


A Long History of Arguments

by mazzyg



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aging, Curses, Fae & Fairies, Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Stubborn Idiots Being Stupidly Domestic, proximity curse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 08:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazzyg/pseuds/mazzyg
Summary: De-Anon from the KinkMemeAs children, England and France were cursed by an old woman as a lesson; but as time goes on, the effects of it are far more far reaching than either of them ever expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Prompt:
> 
> "America mentioned in an old strip that fighting was the only thing keeping these old men alive. So, let's take it a little more literally! For some reason, France and England get cursed (who and why is up to anon), where if they stay apart too long, they turn into old men (they won't die, they'll just be super old, and all the stuff that goes with it).. But! They can be farther apart if they have a good old-fashioned argument.
> 
> Sp, what do they do? Do they play domestic because they've run out of arguments? How do the other nations take their yo-yo-ing ages?
> 
> Bonus!
> 
> 1) The curse works the other way as well, if they have a huge spat white in each other's space, they'll turn into children.
> 
> 2) They have to live together after they run out of arguments."
> 
> As usual, this got a bit more out of hand than I expected.

At first it had been an utter disaster.

"Witches are serious things," insisted England, grabbing at France's hand. The man had turned away, his jaw set and his shoulders stiff. The wind dragged through France’s hair and threatened to turn it into a rat's nest, and more alarmingly, he ignored it. 

France threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed and thrashed at England's heart.

"Little England, Witches are a story. I love stories and romance, but they are just a story, and that is just an angry woman who cannot touch us."

"No, France, we must go back. You must apologize," England insisted. His grip tightened; France's thin wrist bones bit into his palm. France was so tall and his hair was the color of the late autumn wheat field behind him. England set his feet, face turning ugly, while France tugged at his hand.

"I will not apologize. It is beneath me," he said, and England wondered when he'd become so cold without him noticing. So much pride; England had thought, once, that it was so noble. 

"Then I will. I will apologize for us both," England decided, turning and leaning his whole body into it. France squawked, caught off guard. For a moment he stumbled along behind the young country who couldn't decide what his majority language should be, let alone stop believing in fairy tales.

But it was only a moment; but England was very small. France twisted and jerked, and England cried out as he tore his hand free.

"You may go and apologize, but I won't," said France archly, stubborn for pride's sake. England stomped his foot, he threw himself at France yelling and pulling at France’s shirt.

France left him in the field in the end, and it was only the bitter air and the argument between them that allowed, for a little while, the idea that maybe the woman had just been a normal woman after all.

It was a month later when boats were spotted crossing the sea between them. England was in Dover; he saw them from the cliffs. He'd been expecting them. The path down to the harbor was a switch-back trail of up and down, the grass clinging to the cliffs against the howling wind off the sea. England’s joints hurt from the abuse from climbing down. He was out of breath by the time stubbornness brought him down to the sea, and the boat had beaten him there.

England waited, sitting on an overturned barrel that smelled strongly of fish and oil, on the dock. On board the ship, amongst the commotion, he spotted an elderly gentlemen decorated in the colors of royalty amongst the busy sailors. The gentleman strode down the gangplank with a self possessed air that claimed the wood under his feet. The wind dragged pale hair out of his eyes; lines dug deep into his face. Despite his pride, he stumbled a little when he hit the bottom of the ramp, and one of the young sailors popped up in alarm and grabbed him by the arm.

"Careful now, Grandfather," the young man said, and the old man muttered something garbled in another language and tried to throw him off.

England just waited. In the past months he'd found a strange patience, even as a younger heart beat with panic beneath it. He simply didn't have the energy to get worked up over anything.

The old gentleman stared at the dock as if it had personally offended him until he found England's eyes. The visitor took in a deep breath and marched for him, wrapped in a heavy and fine cloak and with a shoulder set against the wind. 

England blinked. With each step, the white in the gentleman’s hair seemed more blonde; the wrinkles less deep. England took in a breath and his bones did not creak as much as they had for the past week. The ache in his ankles and elbows pulled away, a weight he had forgotten until the moment it disappeared. 

England slowly came to his feet, staring in bewilderment at his hands as the liver spots and fine map of wrinkles smoothed away as if they had never been. Lucky for them, no one was looking at the two of them in the chaos of docking a ship.

No one watched as an old man turned fitful and furious and teenaged as he walked towards another old man who shrunk, cloak five times too big again. 

"This is all your fault!" demanded France, in French, his fury only fitting into the shapes of the nobles’ language. "You and your insistence on magic and witches!"

"You're young again," England pointed out, thoughts whirring.

"I am not! I look like a horrible, wrinkled old---wait, what?" France's words stumbled, startled, as he looked down at himself. He patted himself down frantically, fingers slipping over his throat and following the strong line of it to his jaw. His face. Until his eyes peeked out through his hands, face aghast.

"You didn't believe me," said England, a pout creeping into his voice that had returned to a child’s whine.

"I still do not believe you. This must be something else," France announced, hands dropping away. He stepped in and grabbed England's shoulders, shaking them, and England had to grab at France's wrists to not shake apart to the ground. 

"It's! A Witch! We must find her and beg forgiveness--France--France, stop shaking me," he ordered, or tried, shoving at France with short arms and twisting his body until France let go. 

"Yes, we will find her, and once we do, I will make her tell us what we must do," France said, his fingers grabbing at his collar and twisting. He turned, as if to march them back down to the shore immediately.

"France, I can't go, there are things I must do," shouted England in alarm, dragged along and helpless. "I can't--"

"Oh, but you will, and immediately," France determined, and of course, that was the last word on the matter.


	2. Chapter 2

They looked all over in the woods where the woman had cast the curse on them. They had been playing at a game of sticks, using them as swords and chopping at each other while France pretended at being an important person and England tried to thwack his backside. France had spotted a cat and decided it made a fine enough target; England had yelled at him, and an old woman had tried to stop them and France had--

well, it had become a mess, and they could not find the Witch again.

Learning the extent of the curse took maddening trial and error. Magic did not come with a set of instructions, and they only had England's poorly remembered recollection of what exactly she had said to go by. They discovered that if they were separated over a great distance, with time, they would turn into old men.

They did not grow slowly old like the mortals did, segueing from youth to adulthood, to middle age, to age, and then to white haired and wheezing. It was not a transformation that began the moment they parted and slowly came upon them. It was something they could feel, like the onset of winter. In a matter of days, they would simply be old; old men with aching limbs and people calling them witches.

But the worse terms they separated on, the longer they could remain young. 

So they learned. They learned how to hurt each other, which was a natural thing for countries considering the way their borders flexed and shifted with every passing mortal generation. But they learned how to do it by degrees. As the years passed they turned it into an art form. France was better at it than he was at measuring the exact level of vitriol required to keep them relatively normal for a month, or a year, or longer. 

But, they always had to come together again eventually, no matter the row they had before they left. After all, the mortals had enough problems with the concept of their existence, let alone obviously seeing some strange change in their bodies that couldn’t be explained by anything other than magic.

"We can't stay in the same room forever, England," said France, early on, when they'd realize nothing changed as long as they stayed together. England was taller than when they’d been cursed; he sat in a simple cotton shirt and trousers by the fire near France's feet, while the other man sat on a stool and measured sticks into the flames.

"I'm not saying we should," England said, irritable. 

"I refuse to be reliant on something as ridiculous as keeping you close," said France sharply, and it hurt something in England. The longer this situation went on, the more outrageously sharp-tongued France became. England wrapped his arms around his knees, mouth set into a line, and refused to look at him. 

"I'm not telling you to," said England into his arms.

"Then stop pouting, England. We have affairs to attend to. You cannot stay."

"You're the one who dragged me here in the first place," England muttered. "Don't make this my fault."

"It is your fault. You--you believe in things, and that is what made the curse real. If you had just ignored it from the start--"

"Oh, so you believe it's a curse now? You believe me?" England spat, turning to look at him with a hand on the floor for balance. "And it's my fault? That's not how magic works, France!"

"You don't know how it works, stop pretending you do," said France, his voice rising, and before the curse England could not remember ever yelling so much at each other. It was as if, with the sudden pressure to yell at each other--to yell anything--it had opened a floodgate of bitterness that both of them had stored for in their hearts for years.

"Then stop telling me what I can and cannot do," said France, standing. He threw the sticks to the ground.

"Then don't tell me what I should or should not do!" yelled England, scrambling to his feet.

They stared at each other.

"Then go," said France thinly, but he smiled with dark victory; England hissed through his teeth, heart beating too fast. A perfect argument to leave with, to leave on. 

"Drown in a river," England tossed at him, stomping out the door.

It was pride. It was always pride, and over time, they could simply not stand each other until the sense of winter crawled inside their bones and for, a moment, it was a relief to see the other man's face. 

But it didn't last; it never lasted.

And centuries later, England found he was becoming tired of it.


	3. Chapter 3

"Why do you guys always fight, anyway?" asked America once during the World War. 

England did not hear him at first. He had his palms pressed tightly to the top of the wide desk in front of him. He was staring at the lines on the map as if by force of will he could change the location of the fronts and the little markers that indicated where they'd lost ground. 

He and France had been yelling at each other just minutes ago. France had abruptly left with a swirl of his short blue captain’s cape, muttering invectives in French.

"Well, England? Man, everyone says 'the continent this' and 'the continent that' and 'Its just Europe, Al,' but really? You guys can't stop for two damn minutes to discuss important stuff?" said America, getting into it, his face turning red and his arms flying up.

"We do not always fight," muttered England. A headache began in his temples.

"You could have fooled me! Even the War of Independence, France helped me but it was always about you," said America. 

England fell flatly silent. America seemed to realize how he’d slipped into bitterness a moment too late. America pressed his mouth into a thin line, eyes flashing. 

They both breathed harshly in the silence, and England squared his shoulders against it.

"We don't always. I suppose it's as much a habit as anything else. At least one thing has not changed in this crazy situation," England suggested, with a vague gesture at the door.

"Its weird. We're allies. You grew up together," said America, brow furrowing as his mouth pulled to the side. The puzzle of it doused the old memories for a moment. The boy hated puzzles he couldn't solve, problems he couldn't grasp.

England couldn't help the low tug of affection in his chest. 

"It's just how it is," England said, and that was that from him. “Now, exactly how quickly can you get your men from the African Campaign?”

After, America proceeded to ask everyone about it; everyone shrugged and said that it was just how England and France always had been. England knew because he was in the room half the time, and once Russia cornered England very benignly in an underground bunker while the earth shook with falling shells.

"Why do you always fight?" asked Russia, always too large and smiling too softly and with his fingers pulling thoughtfully through his scarf. "We should always try to get along together.” “Everyone should get along together," Russia repeated, earnestly, when England said nothing. England pulled back from him a bit and wondered if he could press his way through the wall behind him.

"It's how we get along," England tried when escape seemed impossible. 

The two of them, through mutual and unspoken agreement, had decided a long time ago to leave it all a secret. On a basic level, the curse made them vulnerable to the machinations of the other Nations. Like now--it had been weeks since they'd last seen each other, and their words had been tired and the barbs blunted. England felt old. He felt the winter in his bones, and that did not help with Russia looming over him.

"I do not understand. Friends do not argue," said Russia wisely, studying his face closely.

"We've known each other a long time," England tried again, offering Russia the parental smile he'd learned with America and Canada. "It might seem like arguing to you, but it's like a game for us. We know each other so well, only we can yell like that at each other."

Russia tilted his head to the side. England blinked at his own words, wondering quietly: was it true?

Only France knew how to drag out that one time at Versailles with the ducks. Only he knew how sensitive France could be about wrinkles on his face. Only France knew that England would never get over Arthur's death. Only England knew how deeply Joan had dug into France’s heart--and oh, they had not needed to see each other for years after she'd been murdered.

"You know each other very well. So the arguing is like a special conversation?" asked Russia.

"Yes! Yes, just like that," England babbled, hesitating a moment, and then patting one of Russia's large arms. "A special conversation we have between us. Some friends are like that, but not all of them."

Russia had nodded, accepting this new idea and going idle as he thought about it. England had carefully fled and made sure not to be stuck alone in a room with him for some time in case Russia brought it up again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the one that earns the Mature rating. Shield your eyes, NSFW content ahead.

After the war everyone was tired. 

England was tired, even after everything had been signed. Things were not over. England and America, Russia and France; all of them had new lands to govern and paperwork to make. For the mortals it was a matter of new procedures, of moving armies and building walls and arresting people.

For them, they had to look each other in the face as gaolers and prisoners. It wore England out. There were meetings, and meetings, and trials and military appointments, and once it was all done they all had to retreat home to lick their wounds and let their people handle the rest of it. 

They had won. They had won and they had done it together.

England sat in a chair in the small rooms France had in Berlin. It was a terrible chair, rickety, fit only for a servant's kitchen. His boots were in the corner, his jacket hung up on a peg on the wall. France studied the street outside at his window. They were both there by mutual, unspoken agreement.

It would be weeks, or months, until they'd be able to see each other again, and the final meeting had been a poor place for the row they needed to see them through until then. 

"Come with me," England said abruptly.

France looked at him over his shoulder. France looked thin and malnourished in just his white collared shirt. His collar gaped around his neck, a size too big now. The edge of France’s mouth pulled up in a thin line. 

"Why, my dear? You know as well as I, there are things we must do," said France, but the vitriol had left his voice. His eyes were hooded. 

"You know why," said England. He hated the back and forth; sometimes in each other's beds, sometimes fighting out of them. He pushed the heels of his palms over his eyes. "I don't want to do it this time."

"Why, England, I have never seen you back down from a fight so quickly," said France. "Come now, you are that addicted to my presence? My prowess?" 

France pressed a hand to his chest and lifted his eyebrows into high arches. England barked a laugh that was too thin. 

"No. I just don't want to do this right now. Not now," said England. He looked at the floor, frowning, and missed whatever reaction France had for him.

"England, we have to," said France, his voice sharpening with something not unlike panic. "We must. You must. My countryside is too battered and broken, I will not walk among my people as a stooped old man as if--"

"I know. I know," muttered England. He grabbed the back of his chair, hauling to his feet. "I can't think of anything. You start it, don't make me start it."

"Giving up at the end, England?" asked France archly. "You made such a show of being the little island that would not give up, and this is where you decide it's time to fold it in? Just a spat, England, give me that."

"You...." England tried. He tried, but all he could see was that France was thin and wartorn. His shirt gaped over his stomach and off his shoulders, no longer fitting a thinner frame. War haunted his eyes, but there was a spark there--a spark of determination that had not gone out. Relief had France flushed with red high on his cheeks.

England just looked at France with a feeling of a vice tightening around his chest. All he wanted was what he'd done two days ago; just held France for a while, his hand over France’s heart and counting it's beats. 

Thoughts bubbled up in the back of his mind; coward, weakling, sycophant. Parasite, who clings to the obvious winner. Pride without substance, your armies are nothing, you've lost so much.

But England could not say them; he refused.

France tore his eyes away from him, reaching around himself for something. France's hand landed on a comb, and he brandished it at England.

"Your hair looks like a birds nest," France started, and for them, that was a poor opener to an argument. "Your face looks like it was bashed in with the butt of a gun."

"Those are horrible," England pointed out. 

"You won't help!" spat France. He loomed over him with the brush in his hand. "You--you--stupid, stubborn, tiny little country. Your food is horrible. You can't cook worth a damn. You... you...!"

It was satisfying to watch him stumble over the words, exhausted. 

England stepped in. He wrapped his fingers around the brush and tugged at it; France clung to it stubbornly. England tugged harder, and harder, until he exhaled an angry breath and shoved his shoulder into France's chest. He twisted with his hand, and the brush popped free of France's numb fingers.

"Not today," said England, and he shoved France down onto the bed.

"England, I understand that I am an addictive thing, that I am glorious and you cannot resist me, but this is a little bit much," breathed France through his wheezes. France grunted as England landed on him, knees and elbows luckily missing anything important. England shoved up on his arms, straddling France on hands and knees. The man was laid out under him, breathless and chest heaving underneath the thin white shirt. 

"I don't want to argue," said England, and he slid his hand up under the shirt and pressed it over France's skin. For all he looked thin and pale, France was still warm. The muscles of France’s stomach pulled tight with a gasp underneath England’s palm.

More than once, they'd gotten stubborn. One or the other would wait it out, old and wizened and creaking with the weather. Sometimes they were nearly caught that way by another country. They would wait for as long as they could stand and then crash together afterwards, the rush of youth heady like an aphrodisiac. 

Arguing for principle and arguing for anger and arguing for purpose had blended together, and England couldn't tell it apart anymore.

He bent down and mouthed France's neck, over the bruise he'd already left. 

"England, please," said France. Thin strong hands came up his back to fist in England's shirt. "Please, I know you cannot resist me, but--ah."

England nosed under the collar of France's shirt and kissed his collar bone. He started to undo buttons while France closed his eyes and swallowed so hard that England could taste the skin of his throat trembling. 

Stubborn, England kissed France’s chest. He undid his shirt and pushed it aside; he kissed down and down, and when France interrupted him, he bit. This was the best way to keep France quiet. It was the best way not to argue at all. France's breathing was light and uneven. He arched his back, shoulders and hips pressing back down into the mattress. 

England felt like he was trembling; his heart was beating fast, as if he was running. He ran his hands over where France's slacks pulled over the man's thighs, and cold fingers curled into his hair and jerked on it.

But he couldn't help it; he pressed his nose to the dip of skin by France's hip, more bone than muscle right now, and muttered, "Shut you right up, didn't I?"

"Fuck you," breathed France, swatting his head. England grunted and looked up at him, scowling. 

"Is that a request, is it?" he asked, and France swatted him again.

"If you won't argue, at least be useful in another way," France growled at him, and England couldn't help a smirk. He dug his fingers into France's thighs and kissed just below France's belly button. Pleasure curled in his stomach, hot and heavy, as France's legs kicked a little. Taking his time, England undid the buttons for France's trousers. He kissed the skin there and earned himself a breathy sound; he undid them, shifting up on his knees to get a hand inside France's pants and palm the hard cock underneath. 

France gasped; he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, throat working.

"Easy today, aren't you," drawled England and France kicked again, as if to hurt him, missing horribly.

"We've won and I'm not dead," breathed France. "You can't imagine how much that makes one want to celebrate being alive."

"I can," England said, and this was better. He leaned down and kissed at the edge of France's mouth; France grabbed at him, jerking his mouth down and keeping him there with fierce kisses to his mouth. England shifted his grip, palm sticky, and drew France's cock out to the air. France gasped against him, pausing a moment to pull back and stare at him with narrow eyes.

England made a fist and squeezed lightly; France's expression went slack, his mouth a little open, red from kissing him. 

"You are so easy, that's what you are," England breathed. He moved his hand, up and down, the slick precome coating his palm as he felt the tremor of France's cock in his hand. "Putting on airs all the time, but I know you."

"Now you think of something," France breathed, hips arching upwards with a frustrated little noise. "Why do you have the worst timing? Always too late, you think of it, you said you didn't want to argue."

"I'm not arguing," England argued, bending down to kiss him again; France turned his head and England kissed skin and hair, sputtering as it caught inside his mouth. Hair just tasted--stringy, and France barked a laugh at him. 

"No, No, you won't get me easy," France announced. He slung an arm around England's neck, catching him in the suggestion of a headlock. France dragged him down with it, squawking, and forced to let go. France threw a leg around him, a hand already wriggling in between the two of them to palm at England's pants.

"What's this, not being greedy for once?" England said, a jolt running up his spine.

"This is revenge," France promised, crushing their mouths together. England's protest muffled, struggling, while France's hands did things. He gasped as air skidded along his belly, then groaned as a palm found him. 

"Who is easy now, hmm?" hummed France. 

"You. You are easy," England said, and then sucked in a sharp breath as his cock skidded against something hard and hot and slick. 

"Help me," France demanded, and England buried his face against France's throat. He reached between them, and their hands were sticky and slick as they pressed their cocks together. 

They rutted together, fighting to breathe. A low tight feeling curled into England's stomach, and he wondered for a moment if they could even remember what it was like not to argue at all. It was their language between them; it was how they communicated, curse or no curse,

England came suddenly; it made him shake, spent in their combined hands. France laughed--a victory--and he was shuddering under him, come burning hot and mixing together on their stomachs. England tugged his hand free and lay on him, a mess, the sweat making his back cold as the wind from outside came in through the window. France had trouble catching his breath, one hand in England's hair, the other trapped between them.

They lay like that a while.

"I'll think of a proper argument tomorrow," France breathed in England's ear.

"You always do," England said, and closed his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

England had a cottage in the countryside. The Queen kept it for him, indulgent about it. On paper it was officially one of many small pieces of land that belonged to the royal household and it was technically loaned for some charity, but it was for him. When he walked out in the morning, there was only grass and sheep. Sometimes the farmer who owned the sheep came by, a lovely woman always wearing tall red galoshes, and she would lean on the fence they shared and chat about the weather. England thought she figured he was a retired military man who had fled to the countryside. It wasn't very wrong, really. 

Mail came on Friday. Last time he'd talked to his neighbor, she'd told him the sheep knew a storm was coming, so he'd checked to make sure all his windows were shut. He sat outside, watching the pile of angry storm clouds fill the horizon, and drank tea out of a thermos. 

He could feel the weather pressure shifting in his bones. He frowned. He and France had not had that great of a row last time the UN had gotten together. The insults were practiced, the argument involving something from the 1600's. England went inside and made the house ready for a storm.

Rain came down in buckets all night while he laid in bed and distinctly ignored the emails sitting in his phone. France had been trying to contact him for days, at first needling, then insulting, and then creating more and more elaborate threats. They'd found that arguing via email worked only a little; arguing over the phone worked better. It meant they often spoke but saw each other much less frequently, the arguments smaller, but spread out over fewer days in this age of easy communication.

Sometimes people noticed their carefully executed dance of insults. Once China and he had shared a wall between their hotel rooms at a dignitary function in Hong Kong. There was a little balcony and England had ducked out on it to call France, lining up arguments in his head; that market idea is ridiculous, did you honestly think that would work at Eurovision, your taste in wine at the dinner after that meeting last month was horrible. 

England had come back inside after the argument had escalated to screaming and had ended with France hanging up on him. He tossed his phone aside with a sigh and bees buzzing in his guts, all sorts of twisted out of shape. A knock had come from his door; startled, he'd patted himself down, as if he'd stolen something and forgotten about it and needed to find the evidence in order to hide it.

England stopped; he was being ridiculous. Angry and on edge--the argument had turned into one of their more serious rows--he'd open the door to find China there.

Oh.

It was rather late, wasn't it. Time zones and everything.

"Er, good evening," stumbled England, trying to look away from China's irritable gaze. The man had the ability to just look at a person and make them squirm. England refused to squirm. 

"Yes, good evening. Deep evening. You could even say, it is very much night," said China in clipped tones, extra annoyed to filter himself into English. "Why are you always on the phone at the worst hours?"

"Time zones, you know," England said, flushing. He refused to look guiltily at his phone. "I had to make a call, it was important."

"It was France," said China, waving a hand sharply through the air. "You hate France. He hates you. But you are always calling. This is not the first time. Hong Kong always complained about it; he's always calling! Worst hours!" 

England blanched at the thought of being so accidentally obvious; the weight of the curse and it's secret pressed against him. 

"It was important business, as I said. We have tightly involved movement of peoples and economies," said England primly. "I'm not complaining about how you are always texting during meetings!"

"I do not," said China archly. "I only text during breaks, which is polite."

"You use those picture things, I saw you," England said.

"They are called emojis, you ignorant fool. I am older than you by several dozen hundreds of years, and even I know what they are."

Couldn't hold that over me if you saw me tomorrow if I hadn't called, England thought bitterly. He sighed, smoothing down the front of his shirt.

"I apologize, China. I will attempt to be more circumspect in the future," he said, because he was a polite gentleman and China wasn't France. He wasn't obligated to argue. 

China seemed put off whatever he was about to say; he closed his mouth, and nodded sharply. 

"I hope so. Good night," he offered, and didn't stay for England to repeat it back to him.

The memory faded.

England shut his eyes against the rain against his roof. His phone buzzed again; he reached over and turned it off. He just wasn't in the mood, no matter the threat that lingered in his bones. 

The next morning he looked in the mirror and could see the shadow of age on himself. Lines by his eyes, his hair nearly all white. He ran his hand through it; by the end of the day, all the brown and blonde mix would be gone. Eaten. 

He jumped at the knock on his door. It was Thursday; the mail was not due. Freezing in place his thoughts scattered. The nearest town was a tiny thing of maybe forty houses. What would any of them think to see an old man suddenly at the home of the eccentric young man who'd been living there for the past two months?

England drew up a plan as he tucked his shirt into his waistband of his pants and opened the door. 

"Good morning," he said, then stopped.

France stood there, looking cross. His shoulders were bent and the rain was beating down on his umbrella. A car sat at odd corners behind him in England's drive, next to the porche. Mud spattered France's legs, and his hands were wrinkled and bony. White, near transparent, hair hung in his face and age weighed down his eyes.

It had been a while; England was struck, just looking and remembering. France's cheekbones became more prominent when he was old, but he was still strong somehow. The same dusty elegance of the backrooms in Versailles despite years stripping the gleam from the gilded paint.

"I refuse to continue your silliness," said France, stepping closer; England could feel the age fall off himself and could see it in France's face. France loomed over him in the doorway, looking down into his eyes, and England looked back feeling strangely floaty in his head. 

"England," said France. He bent down and touched England's face just barely. "England, you must move."

"Right," said England, ducking out of the way to go into his kitchen. He could hear France shaking the raindrops off his umbrella with a flat rattling sound, grumbling with the stomps of his feet against the mat inside the door. On auto-pilot, England put water on for tea and found package biscuits in a cupboard. 

France had already made himself home in the front room, sitting in the very comfiest chair next to the iron stove. It was the chair England preferred, which was why it was next to the stove. France scooted forward in his seat, hands extended to it, and frowned when he found it wasn't as hot as he expected. 

"It's only embers right now. I need to get some wood from out back," said England, setting down the tea service on the side table at France's right hand. France huffed and threw himself back into an elegant sprawl, long hands dripping off the arms of his chair.

"Tea, always tea," said France, looking over at the clatter of porcelain as England settled the sugar bowl. "Don't you have something stronger, like wine?"

"I have cooking wine," England ventured, mostly to needle him. France huffed and flapped his hand, unimpressed.

"Cooking wine! I will not stoop to that, as if we are on rations at war. And even then, I never drank it. Are you getting the wood or not?"

"You should be feeling better now," England said, eyeing France's youthful hands. 

"It's raining. Its cold. I drove along bumpy roads that god has forgotten and damned while my entire body was convinced it was about to die," said France. "I think you owe me some warmth and proper hosting."

"Does that mean you're staying a while?" asked England.

"Get the wood," said France, sinking into himself.

England shook his head and muttered under his breath. Outside the rain showed no sign of letting up, and he stole France's umbrella to dart out through the sheets of water to the lean-to for the wood. He was running low, he mused, grabbing an armful and holding the umbrella in his armpit as he trundled back. By the time he'd gotten inside, France already had helped himself to tea, and had it sitting in his lap to warm it. A biscuit was in his hand, and he was wrinkling his nose at it.

"If I'm a good host, then be a good guest and not saying anything," England grumbled, kneeling down in front of the stove and feeding sticks to the low glow of embers inside.

England could feel France's eyes burning through him. He shut the grate, standing and brushing dirt off his hands. Silence pressed in on him as he dragged the only other chair in the front room over to the grate, leaving the fire between himself and France, and took a cup of tea for himself. Settling into the hard-backed wood chair, he focused on the wall and let the tea sink down into his stomach and chase off the rain chill.

"You're so very, very stubborn," said France at last. He was more anxious about silence; he gave in more quickly than England did. Grew more restless. England knew it of him. He knew all of France's softest places, and he knew how to make him spitting angry. He knew when a stubborn silence would drive him up a wall until France said something nasty. 

"And you're an idiot," said England, "But that's never stopped you."

"You wouldn't answer my calls," snapped France. "We agreed. The phone works perfectly well for a few days."

England focused on drinking tea, wishing he could just build a wall and sit behind it instead of existing with France like this in his front room. 

"Well?" said France. "You made me come all the way out into this horrible island, in the rain. I had a lovely young woman ask me if I needed help crossing the street!"

"I'm sure looking like an old man does not dent your drive to seduce anything that moves. Perfect opening," said England. "You could have asked her to give you a sponge bath."

France's grip tightened on the cup and there was a canny look to his eye, as if he was measuring the exact force required to throw it at his head.

"That is classless," France said. The argument was warming the air between them; they knew all the steps. "I looked old enough to be her father twice over, England, I would think you had some sort of fetish."

Suddenly, England was tired of it; of all of it. Of the curse. Of how France could never lower himself to enough to be old like the people around them, or try to deal with the curse properly. 

England sighed. He put the cup to the side.

"Aright," he said.

"...Alright?" said France, staring at him. "You--you ancient...skirt chaser."

"That's horrible," said England. "Can't you do better?"

"You--you....insinuator of horrible things," said France, but both of them knew that the moment had passed and the argument had deflated. France kicked out his feet, crossing them only a few inches away from the little stove, with the air of great injury.

"I've got a good cheese and bread," said England, studying the movement of tea in his cup. "And a pickled spread."

"Don't tell me you are suggesting you cook us lunch," said France, warily. 

"I could," said England.

"You're a disaster," said France. "You can't cook anything that a decent living being could eat and survive."

"Then you do it," said England. He couldn't even be needled anymore; France had complained about his cooking for hundreds of years, and he was just tired. He couldn't work up the proper outrage.

"Fine. I will show you what a master can do with even simple ingredients," said France.

They ended up complaining about Germany as a common topic, and then other members of the EU. France had a good story about Canada getting stuck at an environmental protection conference cornered by an earnest young mortal man from Spain who insisted that Canada (the physical and actual country, the one with rivers and rocks) needed to build a giant mirror to reflect the sun and save the polar bears. 

England was chuckling as France complained about his kitchen, the state of his burner, the lack of proper grilling pan, and the astounding emptiness of his spice cabinet. They ate lunch together. It was a fancy melted thing that was basically grilled cheese but France insisted on calling it a 'melt'. 

During the afternoon the rain lightened up a little bit, but did not stop. 

"What a dreadful rainy place," muttered France. "You should just stay on my coastline, it's actually warm there and the sun miraculously appears."

"And battle with all the tourists? I already go there in summers," pointed out England.

"Its not like that all the time. Especially when you lot don’t have your people trying to shove into the few decent beaches in Europe," said France, curled back-up in the good chair. England had washed the dishes; he stood in the kitchen doorway, just looking at him. 

France's wavy hair had escaped the ribbon holding it back and a good amount of it brushed over France’s forehead. France looked a little miserable. The fine silks of his clothes sticking to him a bit in the humidity from the rain. 

"I do like French beaches," England said, drawing up on him. He rubbed the hint of dampness from his hands on his pants. "I suppose you have some nice places. Its nice and quiet out here, though. Nothing but me and sheep and sometimes the mail."

"I can't understand why you are all the way out here," said France, throwing a hand wide. "There's nothing here!"

"That's something of the point," said England, sitting on the arm of France's chair. The chair creaked alarmingly, but England didn't move. 

"Why?" said France, glaring at him, but about the twist of annoyed mouth, his eyes were asking what the hell was he doing.

England shrugged, and flicked a strand of France’s hanging hair. 

"Your hair is......... flat," he tried.

France broke into laughter, pressing a hand to his mouth as he watching England over his knuckles.

"That's the worst I've heard," said France dryly.

"You are inconveniently tall," tried England again. 

"Really?" said France.

"You try better," England said. "I can't."

"You..... It rains, constantly, in your country and its miserable," tried France.

"You already complained about that," said England back, lifting his heavy brows. 

"Your beaches are artificial and dreary," said France, but his mouth was trembling with a barely suppressed smile.

"Half of them were carved out of mountains and the sand is dragged in from somewhere," England sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Honestly," said France, asking the sky.

"We've said all there is that could be possibly said, you damn frog," said England. 

"Come now, you are infinitely creative," said France, a hand laying on England's knee as he leaned up and in to him; England turned his face away, arms crossed, and his skin prickling with heat. "Tell me again how I'm a weak idiot who couldn't even protect my own capital."

"You're a weak idiot who couldn't even protect your own capital," he dutifully repeated. France snorted, then sighed, leaning his head against England's side.

Together they listened to the rain. France was very, very warm and England felt stuffy under his jumper.

"I'm not letting you cook dinner," said France.

"I didn't think you would," said England.


	6. Chapter 6

They ended up in bed together that night, after France had concocted a meal out of the contents of his cabinets. England had offered it to him, polite as a host, and France was off-put by what he called insufferable charity. France had dragged him down with him, saying something about it being cold and England a bed warmer. France had meant it as an insult, but it was somewhat true, and neither of them could work up a proper snit over it.

They tried over the next few days; France would point out an old wound and England would find the insult totally dulled, used too many times, and he was unable to be righteously angry at it. He'd try to yell at France for making him go out into the rain over and over for more wood, but in the end they'd both ended up laughing at each other. 

They'd just.....run out. 

Day seven, and England woke up tangled in France's arms. He pushed up on his hands and just looked at France, a disgraceful mess of a man shoved in with him on a double bed against the wall. The morning light made his skin look a warmer color. Sweat made the man's hair stick to him--there was a lot of it, but it was light--and a strand was half in his mouth. 

England really could just live like this for the rest of his days, he thought quietly to himself. He rubbed his thumb over France's cheek, pulling the strand of spit hair out of the man's mouth. He didn't even mind.

England knew him, inside and out, and couldn't think of a single mean thing to think or say.

France made a noise, protesting, and slit open one eye. 

"You look disgustingly infatuated," murmured France.

"You look disgusting," said England. 

"What a gentleman," said France, sighing and stretching. His long pale arms arched out of the light and into shadow and his feet stuck out from the other end. He sighed, flopping, and England felt a strange feeling turn over in his stomach.

"I thought, maybe," said England, and he shut his mouth.

France eyed him, sleepy lassitude leaving him. He pushed up on his elbows and brushed his fingertips over England's stomach. England sucked in his stomach a little bit, a shiver running over his shoulders.

"Don't stop now," said France. 

England swallowed.

"I thought I might not mind growing old in the countryside," said England, looking away from him.

"....That's it?" murmured France. France had made all of their meals. He'd insisted England make a run into town and had given him a neatly penned list of essentials that had been two sheets of small note paper long. They'd talked about the other nations, about policy, about the ridiculous things their relative Prime Ministers had done lately. The days had passed in a contented blur.

"Oh shove it," muttered England, starting the fight to crawl over France and out of the bed. "You won't take it seriously."

Long arms wrapped around him and England yelped, suddenly caught. France twisted and England found himself trapped in a tangle of blankets and french legs, staring up at France pursing his lips thoughtfully. 

"You thought if we didn't argue anymore and you grew old, you could just stay out here?" pressed France. "You were going to abandon me to white-hair and broken hips while you lived out here tucked away in a cottage? What were you going to do in three weeks at the next UN meeting?"

"Beg off? Show up to the queen and go, Majesty, I think I need a vacation?" tried England. "Look, I didn't really think it through, alright. I just. I just couldn't think of anything anymore. I--I don't want to," he ended, his voice low. 

France was silent for a few seconds; he was dangerous when presented with deeper feelings and honesty. He had a tendency to recoil and become pithy; granted, England tended to become surly and closed off. They both rejected it. 

England was just out of anything nasty to say. 

France's gaze slid away from him.

"............maybe you were right," muttered France.

"What was that?" said England, flatly astonished.

"You were right," repeated France, looking cross about it. "Its a curse. There's a witch. I was a nasty, horrible child and a witch cursed us and we need to make amends and break it and magic is real."

England opened and shut his mouth. He'd kept quiet about the gnomes in his garden and he'd hidden the bowl of milk he put out for the brownies. There were some nails pounded into the doorway to keep out the nastier fairies he'd spotted in the nearby grove of trees, and the woman with the galoshes never lost a single lamb because there was a glow about her. 

"Really?" he squeaked, hated it, scowled, and France snorted and flicked the end of his nose.

"I am tired of us needing to argue to spend a week apart," said France broadly. "You were right, all along. So what must we do in order to break the curse?"

England shut his eyes. He felt strangely empty. All the warmth in the bedding had gone and he was just cold. France wanted to break the curse at last, of course he did, he hated the feeling of being trapped with England for longer than a few weeks at a time. 

Long ago they had tried just not leaving each other, but it had grown awkward and strained and they'd argued so badly that they'd both decided it wasn't worth trying to do again. 

England dragged his hands over his face, not quite sure what he'd been expecting. 

"First we have to go to where we met her the first time. I've thought about it; I don't think she was really a woman or a witch."

Before France could open his mouth with an 'I told you so,' England put a hand over his mouth and caught him in a stern gaze. 

"I think she was one of the fairy folks out to teach us a lesson. That means a fairy circle or a fairy mound. If we go to that woods and find a fairy circle, I think we can call her out again."

France sat back on his heels on top of England's thigh, the blankets pooling around his waist and arms crossed over his bare chest. He was wearing nothing, for it 'was a shame to hide such a beautiful body, even in front of someone like you, a heathen when it comes to art'. England dutifully tried to ignore that as his heart gave a big, heavy beat in his chest. 

"Alright. Tomorrow we're going," said France. "You can leave this house locked up for a while, can't you?"

England sighed, feeling old and empty even without the curse's hold on him. 

"I'll have to leave a note on the door, or the mortals will worry," he said, but France took that for the 'yes I am going' that it was, and gave him a brilliant smile of victory.

"Then we have no need to rush the morning," purred France, but England put a hand in his face and shoved. France sputtered as he slunk out from under him, going for his underwear.


	7. Chapter 7

The fastest course to France was by boat by Dover, then north to the National Forest of Lyons by train and hired car. It was simpler than wrangling plane tickets and England felt a grim sort of satisfaction at the sense of a circle coming back to eat it's own tail. The docks of Dover were grand metal things that jutted out into the sea, embracing huge boats and flat trucks filled with rusted cargo containers. He studied the limestone cliffs, which in and of themselves remained relatively unchanged from the first time he had climbed down them while turned impossibly old. 

France handled all the transactions with the aplomb and charm that he leveraged when he wanted things done very quick and neat. That charm could not change the weather, though, and the rain still came down in sheets the entire time they crossed the channel to the distant coastline.

They shared a chartered seat together, trapped with school children talking loudly behind them and France disparaging the choices of sandwiches on the trolley. England grunted his replies as he watched the wind whip up the waves, thrashing them into silver walls that crashed down in heaves of white foam. Fog clung to the edges of France's distant shores, and they loomed ahead in vague threatening shapes.

He didn't notice when France's conversation with himself petered out, and jolted at the sharp kick to his shin. 

"What's that for?" England asked, jerking his leg back as he focused back on the food France had purchased. There was a solid muffin sitting next to a paper cup of steaming tea, neither things France would have chosen for himself because he disliked overly dense muffins sold by large companies. Confused, he refocused back on France's face, but the other man just rolled his eyes and shoved the muffin in his direction.

"I refuse to go on this fool's errand with a sullen schoolboy," France announced. "Clearly its your delicate English stomach and the lowered levels of caffeine."

England scowled and snatched his muffin away before France decided to shove it into his face. 

"It's not a fool's errand," grumbled England. "This is your idea. Well, maybe that makes it a terrible plan. But if you want to go stomping around in the woods, I'm not going to stop you."

"You're being a git about it," France said, then looked horrified at the borrowed British term. England smirked and France turned his head away, chin lifted, and fingers tight around his coffee. 

"What was that, now?" said England, brows lifted.

"You are a terrible influence on language. There's a reason we have a ministry to protect it," France said loftily, and England found his mood thawed despite himself. It didn't feel like the normal kind of argument; it was the habit that was comforting, despite the heavy rock in his stomach.

On shore, they got tickets on a train going north. It took a few hours and two transfers, but they finally rented a car and argued about who would drive about an hour outside of Lyons. In the end France won because he knew the roads better, and England wasn't in the mood for sniping about his placid driving habits.

The moment they had stepped on French soil, France had been irrepressible; but at least they couldn't get lost. The further they went, the more determined the country became, and the more England had to pretend at enthusiasm.

The rain had let up by the time they were walking down the remains of an old dirt path in the old royal forest. Wet moss and dirt left a heavy thickness to the smell of the air. The beech trees soared above their heads, their branches blocking out what little sun managed to filter through the grey sky. It left England and France in twilight darkness, relying on a torch fished out of the rental car's boot to find their way along a half-remembered trail.

"You're the one always going on about fairies. How do we find one?" asked France. He wielded the torch, a hand deep in his pocket and hair curling in the humidity. It irritated France; he kept shoving it back out of his face. 

England's steps were slow, the mud sticking to his heels and the bottom hem of his pants. He tilted back his head, searching for the grey sky through the leaves and tried to fit their pattern to a memory centuries old.

"You don't find fairies. They find you," England said. He winced as the torch was turned on him, France stopping dead in his tracks and deciding to blind him. England threw up a hand, squinting past his spread fingers and unable to make out France's face.

"There must be a trick to it, some kind of spell or sign or thing that you do," demanded France. 

"Look for a fairy mound or circle?" England ventured. "They just sort of show up. No one else ever tries to see them, that's all. You.... you find a place you think they might be, and offer them food or something shiny, and then if you're lucky they show up."

France dropped the angle of the torch. England blinked hard to chase the spots out of his vision as above them the storm clouds shuddered with a roll of thunder as they contemplated dropping rain again. As England's eyes adjusted back to the darkness, France resolved as a series of grey lines twisted together; his long legs and perfectly tailored trousers, the sharp drop of his suit jacket off his shoulders, and the pale angle of his face studying England with a certain angry twist to his mouth.

England looked away from him and pushed on down the path, making a show of looking through the tree trunks. He wandered to the left, wet ferns slapping at his ankles as he pushed a bush out of his way to study the muted green shadows just beyond.

"You aren't trying at all," said France. His voice was terse. 

"I'm trying," England said. "You can't just command the Fey like people."

"No, you are not trying. I know you when you are trying; you are stubborn as a mule. You line up ideas and lay out plans, and in the end it is only sheer thick-headedness that keeps you going," said France, his voice starting to rise to echo off the trees. 

"Are you actually trying to get me to cooperate?" England muttered, and instantly regretted it as he heard heavy, splotching footsteps approaching from behind. He sighed and shoved his damp hair off his forehead, straightening up to turn and face the other country. 

Maybe they'd have a proper argument after all, and leave behind the idea of trying to fix a curse.

England didn't expect France's lean fingers to grab his collar; England grabbed France's wrist, digging in his heels as the taller man dragged him closer. They were nose to nose, France's eyes narrowed and digging into him, and England scowled and tried to ignore the smell of coffee on his breath.

"What is wrong with you?" France demanded, giving him a shake. "We've had this terrible curse for centuries and I finally tell you that you're right, we need to do this your way, and you give up? I thought you were tired of this farce!"

England put his head down and shoved his body into France, then twisted; France grunted as his shoulders hit the tree behind him, then gasped as the air left his lungs. England tore away, stumbling back among the grasses that whipped at his legs and left behind cold splatters of water. 

"I am tired of it," England snarled. "I'm tired of this, I'm tired of yelling and arguing, I'm tired of you!"

The words ripped out of him; France stiffened, and the silence rushed in like an accusation. England refused to try and read the look on France's face in the dark. Instead, he hissed in a sharp breath through his teeth and looked away, straight back, firm shoulders, with his hands in fists.

"We won't find it on the path," he said stiffly, and he stomped off for a few feet until a heavy tree root caught on his toes and made him trip. He cursed as he fell to a knee in a puddle and scraped a hand. He leaned his weight back on his heels, digging in a pocket for a kerchief to rub the moss and blood off his hand with a viciousness that almost tore his pocket. 

"You stupid thing," said France, his voice low at England's back. England firmly ignored him, struggled to his feet, and stomped onward.

"England," said France.

England kept walking. He wasn't in the mood for France's hurt; for him to play it out like he was a wounded victim in a story designed to ruin France's life. He wanted nothing of his Lancelot stories of being noble and maligned, pitied and sympathized with, for his life was simply so hard and England was so cruel.

England's chest hurt. The muscles of his chest felt thick and tight as he trudged along with the rustle of France's footsteps following behind him. The sucking sound of walking through wet earth was punctuated by frustrated French curses, and England could find no satisfaction in them, nor in imagining how France struggled in his very nice shoes and slightly shiny shirt that stuck to skin in damp weather. 

"England, stop being an ass," said France, and there was a thin note of panic that made England stop. It felt like he'd been walking for hours; his knees and hips hurt dimly, and the forest around him didn't look familiar. As England came back to himself, he forced himself to take in the world around him.

A stream cut across the clearing in front of him, thin and reedy in the storm darkness. The sound of it was buried under the rattling wind and the threatening rumbles above their heads. England's fingertips felt cold and numb, and his head full of cotton. He twisted to look back behind him, and France was only a few steps away. 

France stood there, his expression pulled tight around the eyes and his mouth pressed into a thin line. The wind tugged at his clothes and pulled them into odd, slashing shapes. His hair was a mess; mud splattered up to his knees, and his grip on the torch made his knuckles look sharp and pale. 

Pained, England finally pinned down with some astonishment. The look in France's eyes were pained and somewhat afraid. 

It felt like someone had punched England in the stomach.

"France?" England said, the name thin and worried. Some of the tight look in France's face eased, and France flashed him a thin smile. 

"You've been acting strange for hours. For two days," said France, and his own voice was thin. "Why are you so angry with me?"

England's mouth went dry, not sure what to make of the plaintive way France asked him. He looked down at the broken trail they'd made crashing through the woods and swallowed.

"It's fine," England said. "It's fine. I get it. You want to be rid of me, once and for all. That's just fine."

It felt so petty to say aloud; England put a hand over his eyes, teeth gritted tightly together. What an idiot. France was right, he was an idiot thing. He was acting like some teenager from the dramas that were so popular out of America lately.

Cold fingertips touched the back of England's knuckles. They slid along the back of England's hand, and then a damp hand took his wrist and tugged. England resisted, mostly out of reflex, and they battled for a moment over it until England just gave up and let France peel it away. 

England lifted his chin and forced a challenge into his stare when he looked up into France's face, only to falter at the soft smile that reached France's eyes. It made the skin crinkle a little there, an echo of the heavy lines that dug in when France grew old. That was right. When France was a white haired old man, he had deep grooves from laughter and smiles etched into his face. 

"My dear, dear England," murmured France. He didn't release England's hand. He just simply held on and stepped in close. "I couldn't get rid of you if I tried."

"That's not the point," said England, chest burning.

"I wouldn't want to get rid of you," France said, and England stared at the way France's lashes drew down over his eyes so that they could no longer look at each other. 

"I. What?" said England.

"You have no head for these things," France sighed, and he released England's hand only to cup his face in his palms. England didn't dare move as the man bent, like a willow bowing before the wind, to press their clammy foreheads together. 

"I'm tired of arguing all the time," said France, slowly as if speaking to a particularly thick child. "I'm tired of watching you flinch and turn so very, very frustratingly stoic. I'm tired of the look on your face when we part on an argument. And I'm especially tired of watching you give up."

"Oh." England tried to put words into his head, but all he could hear was the rushing in his ears as all the blood in his body filled his face. 

"Say something. I refuse to be the only one embarrassing myself," France muttered. The pointed edges of his nails dug slightly into England's cheeks.

"So this isn't about you getting tired of being forced to see me over and over," said England slowly.

"No, you idiot," hissed France, jerking back and lifting his hands as if he wanted to throttle him. Instead, France threw them in the air, exasperated. "I love you, you stupid man who has the worst taste in food and nearly as bad sense of fashion!"

"Well, how am I supposed to know that!" said England back, and now they were both breathing hard and flushed as the sound of rain drops started to patter against the leaves above their heads. "Arguing is what we do! It's how we--how we talk to each other, without that, then. Then--!"

"I just spent a week in a tiny cottage in the middle of no where laughing over the style of hats at the races and the inability of our relative parties to agree on anything," said France. "And I liked it!"

"I. Even the part when I burnt breakfast?" said England.

"Especially the part where you burnt breakfast because I kissed you," shot back France.

They stared at each other.

Rain rushed out of the sky to fight through the tree canopy. Only stray drops managed to make it through to strike their shoulders and hair. France's face was all red; the torch light had gone out, leaving them only in shades of silver and green. There was a shiver in the set of France's shoulders, the man tensed as if to run. It reminded England of a deer, long legged and full of fear, not sure if it should charge or flee.

All the knots in England's chest fell to pieces. His shoulders dropped and he suddenly shrugged off his jacket, needing to fight when his elbow stuck in a sleeve.

"What in the world are you doing now?" asked France, gaze darting over him as if he could find instructions on the care and feeding of England written on his forehead. England had to go up on tip-toe, but he managed to sling his arms around France's shoulders.

Pleasure warmed him at the startled look on France's face.

"You look like a drowned cat. I love you too," said England, as casually as he could muster through the lump in his throat.

"You maddening man," muttered France, but there were no edges to his words anymore. He sighed and ducked down; England push up on his toes, and they kissed briefly as the rain drops flattened their hair and slipped down the back of their necks. 

Nothing else particularly mattered. The cold and the forest and the frustration fell away, leaving only the fluttering feeling of butterflies beating their wings against the inside of his ribs. France's mouth was cold from the rain, but it warmed quickly. It warmed like England's fingertips digging into France's wilting hair.

A soft laugh, like bells, broke the moment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England and France have found their way into the forests of France near the place they were cursed, but they may have found more than they can handle.

France’s kisses consumed England’s mouth, so he had to fight for air to ask a question.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, breathless.

“No. Don’t you stop,” France said, narrowing his eyes. His cold clammy hands cupping England’s face tugged.

“No, the laughter, I swear I heard something--you take those hands back!” England shoved at France’s chest, making the taller man wheeze a laugh at him and draw his hands away from England’s ass. They stumbled apart and England’s feet threatened to slip out from under him on the wet mossy ground. He grabbed at France’s arm to steady himself, and their shoulders collided. 

“Are you allergic to romantic gestures, or--” France started to say, edging into becoming cross.

“Shut up!” England hissed. He jerked around, searching the forest shadows. Somewhere he swore he’d heard something, and centuries of intermittent war built fine instincts. He twisted in place, head cocked to the side.

Somewhere in the woods, someone was shouting for help. It wasn't laughter at all. A high thin voice like a child echoed through the distant trees.

A shiver went through him as the sky thundered and lightening flashed, heralding the doubling of the downpour.

“What is that?” France said, squinting. Then, “England, what the hell are you doing,” for England had started to tear off through the trees. 

“Going to find the source of it, you dolt!” England shouted back. His heart thudded with the panic learned only by parents of overly gregarious and trouble prone children, the sort that put their hands into dangerous places and sometimes did not narrowly escape them. 

France had many children, but he had never learned that one, particular, fear.

Behind him, the sound of France flopping and smacking through the underbrush chased him along as England followed the sound of a child in distress. The yelling started to resolve into words as he stumbled on wet mossy ground and reared back from dark, wet branches rendered nearly invisible by the driving rain. 

Help, and I’m stuck, and he’s drowning.

England careened into a clearing dominated by a gigantic elm that had fallen over so dramatically it had pulled up it’s roots on the way. It’s bare limbs were half stuck into a creek that normally was only a few feet deep, but had swollen into a white-water monster by the sudden downpour. It was not, however, tall enough to block the creek entirely, and England spotted the problem right away. 

A few feet along the truck was a pale child wearing a red coat, clinging to a dead tree limb and staring down into the water. England’s heart squeezed hard as, for a moment, he could see the spectre of Canada’s childhood shouting his lungs out. 

“Don’t worry!” England shouted back, charging down to the waterline. He was already trying to wrestle out of his jacket; what little of him wasn’t soaked instantly was drenched. “Hold on! I’ll get you!”

The child’s head jerked in his direction, and he could see a pair of watery huge eyes. 

“Not me!” the child yelled. “He’s drowning!” 

England followed the shaking pointed finger down into the water and felt the world slip out from under his feet.

A blonde mess of hair bobbed up to the surface down by the crown of the long-dead tree. Tiny hands scrabbled at the bark desperately to grab on. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old, as young as America when he’d waded into the Lenapewihittuk, now named the Delaware River, without realizing how vicious it’s currents could be, and had nearly been swept away back into the ocean.

France stumbled out of the woods behind him.

“You have got to stop running off suddenly like a hunting hound suddenly smelling a bird,” France complained--well, if you asked England, whined. “What are you--oh.”

“Take this,” England said, shoving his wet jacket into France’s arms.

“What are you--oh, no you don’t, you’ll be drowned!” France said. 

“I’m the better swimmer,” England continued doggedly.

“Who has all the triathalons, may I ask you,” France said. His thin fingers grabbed England’s arm in a frigid vice. “It’s my woods and you have never swum the English Channel.”

“Can you for once just not argue about it!” England shouted, yanking on his arm. France narrowed his eyes at him, even as England whirled on him. “There’s no time. Let go before I have to make you.”

The two glared at each other in the driving rain, chests heaving from the running and the shouts of children behind them.

France looked away first.

“Fine, we’ll do it together, you idiot. Take off your shoes and we’ll climb on to the tree. You fish him out while I keep you from falling in.”

England opened his mouth to argue. France lifted his eyebrows into sarcastic arches.

England shut his mouth.

“Quickly,” he said, and the two of them swiftly dragged off what bits of clothing would only make it harder to climb a slippery tree in the middle of rain over an angry river. England tried not to think about the wet, sticky feeling of putting his bare feet down in a mix of mudd and moss as the two of them sprinted over to the tree. 

“Help us, help us,” begged the child in the red coat.

“We’re coming,” said France. “What’s your name?”

“Wiley,” hiccuped the young child.

“Alright Wiley,” France said. He used his mouth delightful and confidant voice, as if sharing a secret. “We’re going to play a game. Can you do that?”

“A g-game? I can’t--my brother--”

“Shhh, I know. We’re coming. But you need to be brave.” France kept talking as he wordlessly stooped down and cupped his hands together to give England a boost; England effortlessly clambered up on the tree trunk as France handed him up. England scrabbled for purchase but old sea instincts kicked in, and he found it rather simple to scitter along the wet wood. It wasn’t even as hard as working mainsail in a storm; the trunk was horizontal and sloped in the direction he wanted to go. 

“Come on, Wiley,” said England, mustering up a smile for the boy. “You can’t help from there. Here, reach for my hand,” he said, streatching out his arm. “We’ll get you off and then we can help your brother.”

Wiley stared at him.

“It’s just a game,” England said. “You just have to reach for my hand.”

The boy was shaking underneath his red coat, the sort of violent color shared by red riding hood and hikers. Behind him, he could feel the stillness of France focusing on the moment; waiting for the half-second they would have in the plan they’d made in the breathless silence of a long stare. 

“Come on,” England said, as gently as he could. “We’ve got you.”

Wiley froze for a moment longer, and then England could see him press his mouth into a brave little line and grip the branches around him tighter. It was the only warning he had before the boy had launched himself along the slick tree surface, feet slipping out from under him. For a moment Wiley’s eyes went wide as his feet faltered and he began to fall.

“No you don’t,” England demanded as he lunged forward. He grabbed the boy’s collar and hauled him in a swinging motion behind him. England’s shoulder screamed and it nearly pitched him sideways. All he could do was twist and throw before the boy dragged him into the water.

He didn’t even need to look; he knew that France had extended his long arms and had caught the boy he’d mostly tossed in his direction. There was a OOMPH and a thud as the two tumbled bakcwards to the river bank.

“Alright, number two,” England said, already edging forward to where Wiley had crouched in distress. He grabbed for branches and used them to steady himself as he inched along on hands and knees, foot by foot down the slope of the tree trunk. Bits of dead bark and old fungus broke underneath his palms and heels, and somewhere behind him he could hear the scrabble of France clambering up behind him. 

England resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and focused, instead, on the pale hair bobbing up and down in the dark water. He lurched to a spot on the crumbling tree, where the trunk narrowed to barely a foot wide underneath him and the brances were mostly broken away and he was directly above the drowning boy.

Several feet above the drowning boy.

England sucked in a steadying breath, searching for an achor point to somehow lean down or reach for the boy, but there was nothing. Only the branch that stuck out into the water that the drowning child must be clinging to in order to avoid being swept away.

A clammy hand grabbed England’s belt and nearly scared him out of his skin.

“It’s just me,” France said in a brief flash of amusement. “You reach down, I’ve got you.”

The ridiculousness of the situation hit England all at once; the two of them, in slacks and collared shirts, clinging to a downed tree in a thunderstorm. 

“You better,” England said, and he leaned out into the void above the churning water. 

France’s cold fingers dug in against his back and England stretched out his arms. France grunted behind him as he took on all of England’s weight as the country reached, and reached, and reached. 

“I’m right here!” England shouted at the water. “I’m right here! Reach up! Try to reach up!”

Only the sound of water answered him. Water rushing down muddy banks and breaking around stone and tree. 

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” England muttered, and he leaned out on his knees. France made an odd, desperate tea kettle noise through his teeth. 

England’s hands punched into the water, water as cold as ice. He exhaled sharply and grabbed at where the child’s shirt and back should have been beneath the crop of golden hair.

His fingers touched something cold, solid, and slippery. 

“Got it!” England shouted in sudden victory. He grabbed on tight with both hands and hauled upwards, and France yanked back on his belt, and England went tumbling back into France’s chest. They tilted there as England grabbed to his chest something heavy, and wet, and--

\--snarling?

“What the bloody hell--” England said, looking down in his arms.

A very, very angry, and very wet, and very large, fox looked back at him. It had golden fur all over and, most importantly in the moment, a dark brown muzzle filled with teeth.

That’s when the tree disappeared from under them.

France screamed and England shouted as they dropped six feet into the river. It hit like a battering ram into England’s side and back, and drove most of the air out of his lungs with the shock. The fox kicked free of his arms, leaving shallow scratches on his limbs, and was lost to the current. England kicked for the surface, digging through the water with his hands, and popped up into the air with a gasp. Next to him a long arm grappled for his torso.

“Let go, you’ll drag us both under,” England sputtered.

“Stop fighting,” shouted France, and England yelped at the strong yank from the arm that snaked around his waist. He was jerked back against the breadth of France’s back as the man reached out to swim backwards, his long limbs fighting the current sideways, to drag them both to shore. England bobbed along in astonishment, occasionally getting a crest of water over his head, until they were both struggling up the bank by grabbing handfulls of weeds and tearing their way up onto land.

The two of them collapsed among the heavy twist of willow roots clinging to the edge of the former stream, now death trap. England stared up into the shadows of the waving willow branches above thier heads, fighting for breath and coughing up water.

“What in the world was that,” France demanded.

“Faeries,” said England, throwing a hand over his face. “We’re idiots.”

Laughter yanked both of them to sit back up. England, wet, missing his shoes and jacket and wallet all, carefully found his feet. Sitting not ten feet away from them on a nearby stump, Wiley was all teeth as he grinned and pointed and laughed at them. What England had assumed to be a child’s eyes were brilliant with eldritch delight, and the red coat looked a lot more like a red cape. Slinking out of the underbrush, the fox from before came to the boy’s feet and shook the water out of his fur.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” England said crossly. Behind him, he could hear France slowly drawing up to his feet. “What was that all about?”

“Tell me, tell me, young men searching for answers, have you managed to discover your manners?” Wiley sang to them. “Perhaps you do not recognize an old friend; I would take a moment to look again.”

“What is going on,” hissed France into England’s ear.

“Shut up,” England hissed back, swatting him.

Wiley hopped down from his perch, and shook out his cape. He slung it off his shoulders and turned it inside out, revealing a lining of batter linen dyed coal black, and put it on again. As he did, his formed changed. Between one moment and the next, he grew tall and long-limbed; his eyes was cast in shadow and his pale hair spilled out over his shoulders and breast in a cascade of white and silver. His pale white hands drifted up from his sides to the dark hood hiding his face and hair to stroke at the raindrops beading up on the surface. 

France stilled next to him. 

Both of them recognized the Witch at once. 

“I cannot believe you were right,” France muttered at him.

England narrowly resisted the urge to step on his foot.

“I’m very sorry for our behavior,” England said, scrambling to grab up his wits. Every fairy tale and story from ancient celtic gods to modern hobgoblins careened through his memory. “We came looking for you to apologize.”

“And instead I found you,” sang the Witch in delight, her child’s voice morphing into a young woman’s soprano. “Through rain and storm you found your test; and indeed, showed your true colors when well pressed.”

“She missed a rhyme,” France said.

“Don’t point it out,” England hissed. He jabbed his elbow into France’s stomach. 

The Witch clapped her hands together in delight.

“And still such a funny pair! Come to ask me for their curse to spare.”

“If it pleases you most kindly,” France said, sweeping forward with his arms spread wide in supplication and bowing low before her. “We two have come to beg your forgiveness and grace. I hope we have well amused you for your trouble, what with us coming unnanounced.”

“Amuse me you have! I have been watching you; indeed, that kiss did show your colors true,” she said, pressed a long pale finger to a set of hidden lips. England’s face grew hot enough to turn the rain and stream water on his face to steam. 

France turned away with a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely restrained laughter.

“Oh don’t you start!” England shouted at him. “Er. Well. Sorry?”

“That’s no apology deserving of--” France paused to compose himself, sucking in air to defend against the laughing but not managing to stop smiling broadly about the whole thing, “--a fine person such as this.”

France swaned forward, picking up the lady’s free hand and bowing over it. He brushed his lips over her knuckles while she obligingly fanned her fingers over her mouth like a Victorian lady caught outside with her ankles showing.

“I, the Republique francaise, do sincerely apologize for any offense I have given you,” he told her in smooth, long dead and ancient courtly French. 

“A fine showing,” said the Witch. 

Both of them looked over at England. France had the poor manners to look delightful and edible while dripping wet, his collared shirt turned transparent where it clung to his long, lean lines. The shadowed face of the Witch revealed little, but England caught the hint of a smile.

England steeled himself and his shoulders, and marched over to them. He bowed stiff and formal in front of her, as if he bowed to the Queen.

“The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland tenders his apologies for out stupid behavior, but mostly his,” England said.

“Wait a moment,” said France.

The Witch laughed; the sound carried throughout the woods, along with the receding sound of gentling rain and running water.

“I suppose you have earned a bit of my favor,” she allowed. “Come, take my hands. I shall kiss both of your mouths, and take away the venom of your words at last.”

“That didn’t rhyme at all that time,” said France.

“Shush,” said England.

They did as she asked. France took up one of her hands, and England the other. It was as cold as the wet tree had been. The Witch swept forward and rose up on her toes to press a kiss to France’s mouth, and then turned to to the same for England. For amoment England could only smell something thick and woodsy; and for another moment, he closed his eyes and saw a wide golden field where two children ran playing with sticks in thier hands. One tall with long hair, and one short and desperately chasing after him.

England opened his eyes.

They were back in the clearing again. The rain was beginning to end, the staccato tempo easing off into a lazy rhythm. Where the tree had been, there was only a stump with a red mark on it from foresters marking trees that needed removing due to disease or age. Next to it, a stream swollen with rain ran lazily in a snaking line from one end of the clearing to the other, and beyond. Folded neatly on the stump was a set of jackets, thick wallets, and two sets of shoes.

“So,” said France, standing next to him.

“So,” repeated England, crossing his arms.

“Fairies are real,” said France slowly.

England threw up his arms and stomped away from him. “Yes! Yes fairies are real! We’ve been under a fairy curse for thousands of years and you only just now decide that I was right this whole time!”

“We’re not exactly normal mortal people, England,” said France, pressing a hand over his greiviously wounded heart. “And I might be seeing things, considering what you said to me.”

England whirled on France, spinning on his heel. He drew in a hard breath to give himself ample room in his lungs to yell, but was caught short by the look on France’s face. It was careful and withdrawn. The man had his hands casually in his pockets and his head cocked to one side, with a sharp look to his eyes. He looked like he’d been half drowned. He looked beautiful and casual and wary.

England let the breath out in a long sigh. He squealched through the mud and grabbed France’s face in his hands.

“You’re stupid but you’re mine,” England said.

“Possessive imperialist,” said France, but his mouth curved into a smile.

“Oh shut it,” said England, and they kissed again.


End file.
